


Oblivion

by cherryjam (blueskull)



Series: FFXIV Write 2020 [15]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: FFxivWrite2020, Gen, Mild Angst, Miqo'te Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationships, Viera Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), written for ffxivwrite2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:28:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26737390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueskull/pseuds/cherryjam
Summary: The flames reflect against the sheen of Brigid’s blade as she settles against the tree, piece of lumber in hand. The only sound in the night air is the comforting crackle of the campfire and her knife shaving away at the wood. The rest of her companions sleep about the campfire, huddled beneath blankets and cloaks. All but one.
Relationships: Warrior of Light & Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Series: FFXIV Write 2020 [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1913422
Kudos: 3





	Oblivion

**Author's Note:**

> E'lija belongs to [afflatussolace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/afflatussolace).

The flames reflect against the sheen of Brigid’s blade as she settles against the tree, piece of lumber in hand. The only sound in the night air is the comforting crackle of the campfire and her knife shaving away at the wood. The rest of her companions sleep about the campfire, huddled beneath blankets and cloaks. All but one.

E’lija sits a little ways away, polishing his arrowheads. Brigid’s told him to go off to sleep, though for some reason tonight he doesn’t seem especially keen to listen. Whilst the viera doesn’t mind keeping watch, she has little need for an extra set of eyes or ears. He’ll simply be tired on the morrow. But, apart from giving him a thwack, there’s not much she can do for his odd behaviour this evening.

Perhaps there’s something he wishes to speak to her of, while the others are out of earshot.

“Hey, Brig...”

Ah, there it is.

“Yes?” Her crimson gaze gives him a brief glance as she looks up from her work for only a moment. The miqo’te seems oddly pensive, as if he isn’t sure how to approach his query. Stranger still, considering his typically effusive nature.

“I was just wonderin’.” The _I_ is drawn out, like he wants to take his time deciding what he wants to say even after he’s already begun speaking. “Who d’ya write all those letters to?”

Hmm. She supposes it would have been foolish to assume no one had ever noticed her propensity for penning parchment and spending coin on their delivery. No one before had deigned to ask her, however. Brigid tilts her head slightly, though she does not look at him. “My daughter.” A still silence accompanies her words.

“Oh -- oh! Y-you have a daughter...” E’lija’s voice pitches up, then trails off. He hadn’t been expecting such a response, she supposes. She digs the tip of her knife deeper into the wood, carving a notch. “What’s she like? Is she pretty? I bet she is.” Having regained himself, some of his gab returns, though there’s genuine curiosity beneath his chatter.

“She is very pretty. Her name is Lyra.” For a moment, she closes her eyes, thinking of the girl with flaxen hair. Last time she had seen her, she had excitedly shown her a large beetle she had found with the other village children earlier in the day, fawned over how pretty its armoured wings were.

“What about your husband? Don’t you write letters to him too?”

Of course, if she has a daughter, ‘tis only natural she should have a husband, no? The woman shrugs her shoulders beneath her armour. “Don’t have one.” There’s an uncharacteristic twinge to her chest, her gaze narrowing as she stares down at the piece of wood in her lap. Her grip upon her knife tightens. “He...” She has never told this to anyone before. “Her father. He left.”

“Ah...”

There are no more words exchanged between them, the miqo’te moved to quietude as the viera simply throws herself into her work. Perhaps the extra eyes and ears were needed after all.

________ 

When she’s finally able to show them all to her village, E’lija is the most hushed of them all, a weight at his shoulders and stomach that feels uncomfortably close to guilt.

_“You should not play with their hearts so.”  
“I’m not playin’, it’s a mutual pastime!”_

All the conversations he’s ever had with her before -- and particularly that awkward night, when she’d told him the father of her child had simply left -- cycle through his mind on repeat, like some accursed orchestrion he can’t find the off button to. And he can’t even smash it to shut it up, either. It simply plays, over and over again...

“Oh!” The little viera girl looks up at him with wide eyes, hued of pinkish red, or maybe simply red -- he’s not quite sure. “You must be Elly, the famous miko-tee bard mama wrote about! I wanna hear you sing! Could you play a song for me?” There are flowers in her hair and a perpetual grin on her lips, her hair a shade of blonde. Not her mother’s colour.

“I, uh -- ” E’lija finds himself stammering for words awkwardly, rubs a hand at the back of his neck. “Of course! I can sing ya something. Do you have a favourite song?”

She looks so _happy_ despite not having a father. Perhaps she doesn’t notice such an absence in the care of her grandparents and the rest of the village. Perhaps she never knew her father at all. Because he’d...left.

But maybe it hadn’t been because of that. Because of what he thinks.

He volunteers to go hunting with Brigid later in the afternoon, a question burning at the back of his mind to scorch his tongue and lips.

“Brigid? I have a question.”

“What is it?”

He walks just a little ways behind her as she silently leads the way, a spear grasped in her hand.

“Uh, her -- Lyra’s father. Do you know why he left?” Maybe, a part of him hopes, it might be because he’d simply _died_. After all, the woman is the taciturn sort, hides her emotions beneath layers of armour both literal and metaphorical. Perhaps it was simply something she didn’t wish to speak of, something that hurt to put into words. And maybe it’s hurting her to ask even now, but the need to know claws at his chest and bites at him like a rabid wolf.

This is the one time he’ll ask. He won’t ask again.

Brigid stops stock still, so suddenly that he nearly collides with her back. Slowly, she turns to face him, weight at one foot as she stares down at him. Her expression is as unreadable as it ever is.

“As soon as he found out I was with child, he left.”

With every word, the sinking feeling in the miqo’te’s chest grows worse until he finds his heart past his feet. There’s nothing he can say in response.

Though she turns away from him again, it’s another moment before she moves at all.

“I loved that man.”

Her voice is taut, her free hand curls into a fist and then slowly relaxes. After a heavy exhale, she walks, a grim and sombre march. He hurries after her, and before he can think it through, reaches to touch at her arm. She pauses, half-turning to glance at him.

“I’m sorry,” he manages, though it’s somehow difficult to look at her. Slowly, she pulls her arm away, only to lay her hand upon his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, too.”


End file.
